


From Ashes

by DesertUrbania



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Graphic Description of Corpses, Mages and Templars, Moral injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slight Canon Divergence, Templar Training, War Table Operation: Protect Clan Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 08:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertUrbania/pseuds/DesertUrbania
Summary: He couldn't take his eyes off her—fierce and adamant, wielding her bow as though it was as easy as breathing. Maker take him, she was supposed to hate everything about him. ATemplar, the scourge of apostates and hardly a friend to the Dalish.So why was she thawing towards him? Why was it, when she came back to him, blood-drenched and dishevelled, did he see the most regal and graceful of creatures? Love was the last thing Cullen was searching for amongst the carnage, but Nisathe was like a trebuchet shot to even the most meticulous of plans.---Nisathe is the Elvhen word for ashes—for sometimes, fire can cleanse in its destruction.





	From Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This work would not be possible without the wonderful devs at Bioware, [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061) and my awesome friend [Lady_Nightshade30](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Nightshade30/pseuds/Lady_Nightshade30)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this fic for literal months, so I decided I really needed to get it out here for the new year! Nisathe is my canon OC for Dragon Age Inquisition--I've even gone as far as having a literal, physical, in-character diary for her >.> I used some online estimates for travel time, the two published lore books, et cetera, so basically, I've completely overthought this. I love overthinking things ಠ‿ಠ (I'm an academic, it's what we *do*). I hope everyone enjoys!
> 
> The song in the beginning is [Bolskine House by Tryptikon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4a8UGehzIE) (fair warning, it's black metal!)

   _Invisible Gods_  
_On planes apart_  
_I thee invoke  
__Oh western star_

 _This is the ground_  
_You walked upon  
_ _The soil beneath_

_Your world long gone_

 

 

\---

The memory of the first shem to fall by her hand often danced around her consciousness. It was the duty of a Dalish hunter—to provide and to protect, but taking the life of an animal was just _different._ The words of Andruil echoed:

_"Vir Adahlen. Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children. Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn."_

Shemlen, on the other hand, were something else entirely. You didn’t eat them, use them for warmth, fuel, or really, _anything_ that hunters were ordinarily taught. Even the wolves that hunted halla provided warmth from their skins and nourishment from their meat. Yet still, humans remained entangled with what it meant to be a Dalish hunter.

Out of the forest, the shemlen were easy to understand; the Lavellan clan was one of the few who liaised openly with humans—but within the dark, damp, wooded sanctuary where the clan sought rest, humans became an acute danger. Their politics were transparent. With a trained eye, one could tell which villages, towns and the like could accept trading with Dalish, but when they dotted the landscape in small groups and gangs…it was hard to tell what they were up to. Some were just passing through, like them. Others had more nefarious purposes.

She held her breath for the moment, as her shot lined up. With a slow hiss, she let fly her arrow. The thud was reminiscent of hitting a boar—but somehow this was more pitiful. Did he really mean to hurt them, or was he lost? She waited. No movement at all—he had dropped like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Nisathe rifled through his things with her thoughts tucked carefully away for now. His coin purse was empty, and his arms were thin. The rusting, dull sword could barely be extracted from its scabbard. Her perplexed face was quickly beginning to show another feeling—doubt—and it was seeping into her limbs in a cold rush.

The familiar footfalls of her teacher brought relief. She spun towards him, showing the decrepit weapon, young eyes wide and seeking reassurance.

“Ha’hren,” she could hear the high, pitchy quality of her own voice. The anxiety of it. “He was wandering close to where the children are getting their lessons. If I had left him…”

“Slow down, da’lan. Take a breath.”

Aedanthir Orvunen Lavellan was a calm man, by nature. On the surface, everything about him was serene, like his father, who had been fittingly named after the stars themselves. Nisathe recalled the elderly healer’s face, dotted with age spots, much like the sky was dotted with shining glimmers in the darkness—this was the man who had delivered her on a stormy, freezing night. Like his father, Aedanthir had the same cornflower blue eyes, with that uncanny, ethereally opalescent hair; to most, he was the spitting image of Orvunen, similarly polite and placid, but to the trained eye—and particularly to his student, there was a detectable level of danger lurking beneath. She was sure that the animals saw this as well—prey could tell a predator from a mile away; after all, even the most beautiful star was made of fire. Rather than being unsettling, however, Nisathe found the obfuscated depths to her teacher comforting. Aedanthir _knew_ how to make hard decisions. It was something she was still learning.

He stooped near the corpse, extracting the arrow and pushing it over until it lay face-up. Nisathe swallowed audibly. His eyes were still open, but in that strange, half-lidded and empty gaze of death. One eyelid drooped unevenly, and his mouth was slightly parted, as though in surprise or pain. Her arrow had taken him square between the shoulders, so perhaps he’d died almost instantly as it severed his spine. Or at least, that was what she hoped. Long, white fingers searched the corpse’s breast pockets, coming out with a strange, grubby box. Aedanthir opened it, and with a glance he exhibited it to her dispassionately.

“Lyrium addict. He might have been out of his mind, for all we know,” he explained. “You did what I taught you, da’lan. That was good.”

“I wasn’t sure. I saw that he was armed, and it seemed like he was going directly towards camp.”

“He was probably going towards the stream for water,” Aedanthir said. Her face fell slightly, taking on a mild look of horror. “For all we know he would have fallen in and drowned. Or he could have spotted one of the children, and in his stupor, he could have hurt them.”

“That’s rather a lot of _coulds_.”

“If it was a bear, would you hesitate?”

“No, of course not. But bears can’t help being bears—they’re dangerous by design.”

“But,” he continued. “That bear could be a mother, looking for her cubs. By killing her and saving us, you then ensure her cubs’ deaths.”

Nisathe closed her mouth with a frown. “But you can’t talk to bears. You can talk to people.”

“So, why didn’t you?”

She looked down at the dirt, where a slow march of ants was busily making their way towards a nearby nest. “I thought if he heard me, he could have a chance to run off. I didn’t want to take the chance that he could get to the camp.”

“Then why are you complaining, da’lan? That look on your face isn’t one of pride for doing your duty.”

“I don’t know. I just made the decision so easily—I killed him without really thinking about all of this first.”

“Leave it be. Help me move him now—we must bury him before he stiffens up.”

\---

\- 4th day of Kingsway, 9:41 -    

Ten years later, Nisathe was far more assured when it came to killing—she often took on the patrol on her own, and deftly judged who would live or die in her midst. These days, there was a plague of Templars that made their path immeasurably more difficult. Aedanthir and the other hunters were now absorbed in keeping an eye on them as well, leaving the actual hunt to suffer. It was a fine line—should they risk starving to death, or allowing a group of magic-hating, elf-hating warriors near to their clan? She knew well enough what happened the last time Templars had come across them at camp.

Her stealth and speed made for an easy reconnaissance; through the weeks, between their dealings with the shemlen and spying on these odd Templars, she’d found that the mage rebellion was worsening. Templars were leaving their posts in droves, heading to the gods only knew what, while tramping through the wilderness and harassing anyone who seemed as though they could be a mage. With supplies dwindling and the parade of interlopers steady, the hunters had finally agreed among themselves to take any prey they could while keeping guard. They needed to be flexible—to ensure that their most vulnerable had enough to eat in order to survive.

 That day, she’d taken the chance to shoot two rams, deigning to bring them whole to camp rather than field dressing them and possibly leaving a trace behind. Even at her most well-fed, a single ram was heavy enough, so she’d secured the second in the bushes while she made the arduous journey back to camp—at the very least, the children would not go hungry tonight. As her boots touched the mossy path, a familiar titter of voices drew forth on the breeze. Humans. With a cautious scan of her surroundings, she pinched off a measure of powder from the satchel at her waist before throwing it around her—it was an easy rogue’s trick of alchemy that bought her something akin to a glamour—they wouldn’t see her, even if she danced in front of their faces.

“The Lord Seeker was firm in his letter.”

“Aye, but why is he not headed to the Conclave as well?”

“A contingent of Knight Commanders should suffice,” the first voice chastised. “Use your brain, can’t you see that those atrocious creatures could use the moment to kill him? The more of us that are there, the better.”

The second voice quietened slightly. “I keep hearing about apostates running through the wilderness. Surely they must be headed there as well.”

“More reason why we need to be there,” the first voice continued. “Any apostate we can fell in the meantime shall be one less at the Conclave.”

Nisathe stiffened. Hunting mages, were they? Reprehensible men, the lot of them—no doubt if they stumbled close to the camp site, they would engage Keeper Deshanna. She shadowed them, waiting to see where they would go once the road forked. The tall one—who seemed to be the owner of the first voice signaled for his companion to stop.

“I hear a stream. Might be worth it to camp for the evening. The others should be around, so we can set off together at dawn.”

Ah. That was the _wrong_ move. The similarity to her first kill was not lost on her as she threaded silently through the trees.

_You should have kept going, shem._

The second man had broken away in search of the stream. Her arrow caught him squarely in the eye as he ducked under a jutting branch, and he fell into the moist underbrush with a muffled thud.

“Montaigne, what in the Maker’s name are you doing? You left my waterskin—” the voice halted abruptly. Nisathe melted into the trees with a mental curse—he was already on his guard, and would quickly become a problem. She dug through her pack until her fingers rested upon the smoothness of glass. Cradling the precious bottle on her lap, she took aim at a tree across the way, the arrow creating a sharp crack that sent the Templar careening its way. Stowing her bow, Nisathe slid her knife free as she hopped down from her perch, the round bottle in the other fist.

As the Templar turned to secure the area behind him, the bottle connected with his helmet. He didn’t drop like the others would—rather, he staggered, sinking slowly to his knees with his sword held out against an unseen foe. He was fighting it. Nisathe flanked him, waiting.

“What is this?” he spat. “Some dirty trick from you damned apostates? Afraid to rely on your magic with me?”

He received no reply—the sounds of the forest—the babbling brook, chirping birds and insects were the only soundscape. The knockout bomb was getting the better of him as he sank into the dirt, driving the tip of his sword into the ground to support himself. Nisathe emerged, kicking it away swiftly. Tawny eyes drew up to her face, confusion beginning to brew—along with the slightest hint of fear as her blade landed smoothly between his helmet and neck guard. As he fell forward, gauntleted hands scrabbled at her legs for purchase, but she moved back, letting the gurgling heap fall into the underbrush.

He died face down in the dirt, like the first man did, ten years ago.

Though he was a Templar—an existential threat until proven otherwise, she still wished he and his companion had just stayed away.

\---

The talk of _others_ kept Nisathe on edge. She couldn’t hear them, nor could she see their tracks. After dragging both corpses out of view of the road, she tore through the trees on her way towards the camp. The halla needed to drink before they could set off again, leaving the clan at its most vulnerable and immobile at the edge of the river. She stopped short of the clearing; the First, Leilani, was taking a pause from her studies to play with the children at the riverside—it was something the little ones needed desperately, as the hunger began making them despondent. The Hahren was an old woman called Nehriel—she sat nearby, absorbed in her embroidery and weaving, glad for a reprieve from her time-consuming charges. The bushes parted, and the glint of silver armour sent Nisathe for her bow.

Leilani’s sharp gaze was fixed on the Templar—she stood stock still, shielding the children while the Hahren threw her things to the side in a rush to cover them further. The man seemed taken a back as he approached, waterskin in hand—he seemed almost ready to turn away—then his eyes rested upon the staff that was slung neatly behind the First’s back. Shield and sword were drawn with haste, and like a miasma, another of his companions appeared through the brush. Nisathe cursed. With his plate armour and helmet, she needed to be in front of him to get a proper killing blow. She settled for firing at the spot right behind his knee—unarmoured for mobility. The man skidded into the dirt with a shout. Leilani drew her staff, moving forward to improve her range—but a petrified, unbelieving expression pervaded her features mid-stride.

Nisathe knew what it was at once. The Templars were negating her magic.

She notched another arrow; the mobile Templar was the biggest threat, but the other could still strike—she needed to make a call. Her arrow thudded against the man’s chest plate, splintering. It caught his attention sufficiently, as he stopped to train his gaze towards the forest—Nisathe bolted from her spot, throwing her last knockout bomb and kicking it hard into his helmet. He doubled over, slurring his curses as splinters tore into his eyes—but the draught floored him almost immediately. She turned to the other Templar, who, if as in slow motion had staggered to his feet, weapon raised to Leilani. Holding her staff uselessly before her, the First was pushing the children back, her eyes determined yet glassy with fear.

Like a man possessed, Aedanthir was there, taking a shield blow to the shoulder as he dove for the man’s sword arm; gritting his teeth, he cut the exposed tendon at the crook of the Templar’s elbow as he rolled out of the way. Nisathe took aim. Her arrow hit the man in the side of his neck. Her ha’hren could handle him now. She swooped down upon the unconscious Templar and slashed his throat.

She wanted to run to Aedanthir’s side to ensure he was uninjured, but she knew that these could be only some of the Templars of this group—they would have to scout the place thoroughly. More hunters came filing out of the forest, weapons ready and faces grim. In the distance she discerned a figure running towards them—Keeper Deshanna. Nisathe hadn’t seen her in such a state in years.

“Are you all unharmed?” she panted, her hands upon her staff like a lifeline.

“I may be out of commission for a while,” Aedanthir said dryly. “But it is fine. I’m afraid we failed on this front.”

Nisathe kept her focus on the forest but nodded. “We apologise, Keeper. We split our focus trying to hunt and guard the clan at the same time. We knew that we were running low on food.” The other hunters murmured in assent, fidgeting uncomfortably in their places.

The Keeper waved them off. “No one has died or been seriously maimed. How many were there?”  
  
“Just north of here, about a hundred paces—I dispatched two Templars headed towards the river.” Nisathe explained.

“We found another near our post, and likewise felt it necessary to kill her,” Halveri, a young hunter volunteered.

“Just the five of them?” the Keeper asked.

“It seems that way,” Nisathe replied. “We must bury them before they are discovered. I hid mine in the underbrush.”

“We dragged the woman into a small ditch and covered her with the remnants of a rotting log,” Halveri explained.

“Go see to it,” the Keeper replied simply, before turning to beckon to the other hunters. “Nisathe, please remain for our protection.”

“There is also a ram near the Templars, also covered by underbrush. It hasn’t been field dressed but it may still be serviceable if you hurry.”

The others nodded, before melting away into the trees. Finally, she went to her teacher, who was being fussed over by the Keeper. Nearby, the children were being shushed and led away from the corpses—many were too shocked and hungry to react properly, staring blankly with little faces marred by exhaustion and confusion, some making piteous little noises in their throat instead of proper cries. She felt a pang looking at them, but there was peace in the knowledge that they could eat tonight. Even ensconced in an aravel while the clan moved to safer land, they could fill their little bellies properly for the first time in weeks.

“Is any of that blood yours, Nisathe?” the Keeper asked. Her mahogany skin had taken on a sickly pallor, her vallasin standing out starkly against her face.

“No, Keeper, it is not,” she replied, keeping her gaze towards the forest.

“You did well, as always,” Aedanthir said, satisfied, even through his discomfort. She could respect that about her ha’hren. He was not one for unnecessary questions—he wouldn’t care to ask her why she took them in the order she did, or why she’d first wounded the charging Templar. He trusted her. Still, the knowledge that he was injured was grating.

A hunter emerged from the forest, pulling the ram by its horns. “The perimeter seems clear. I will return to the others to help.”

“We can move back to camp now,” the Keeper said. “Leilani, please take the ram so Nisathe may have her hands free.”

Nisathe caught the sound of familiar footfalls as the First did as she was asked. She kept her gaze sweeping the foliage.

\---

Laying her prey by the fire, she began to field dress the beast swiftly, raising her head in acknowledgement as Keeper Deshanna approached.

“You do have a habit of finding Templars, child,” her voice was especially tired.

“I’m glad I found them,” Nisathe replied. “Or they would have gotten to Leilani and the children. We must move away from the bank as soon as we can. You can bet more of them will be filing through the area.”

“Aedanthir said the same. The halla have finished drinking their fill, so we do not need to stay,” the Keeper agreed. “Fen’harel alone would set things this way—the moment we tend to our animals, armoured predators flock down upon us,” she said bitterly.

“It’s only happened twice now,” Nisathe pointed out.

“As I pointed out, you were involved in that too.”

“I’ve got a careful eye for these things,” Nisathe set aside the offal. “I believe we should cook this before we go. I already left it for a short while as I brought the other carcass back. I didn’t want to do this out there while so many wanderers were afoot.” She bent again to hoist the creature onto a nearby rock, searching for rope.

“Ordinarily I’d say no, but I know you’d have that thing ready for the fire well before the others return,”

“The Templars were talking about a Conclave,” Nisathe slid her hunting knife through the sinew swiftly. “It seems as though the mages will be there.”

“I have had some word of this when our merchants were dealing with the shemlen,” Keeper Deshanna nodded. She tucked a stray lock of salt-and-pepper hair away as the wind picked up. “They mentioned a temple in the Frostbacks, near a town called Haven.”

“Why peace talks? Why now?”

“Their Chantry is desperate—without the Circle and without Templars, their world is a mess. So is ours,” she sighed. “With the Arlathvhen in the coming months, we must be able to find some way to navigate this chaos.”

“Is this about the Conclave?” Leilani chimed from her spot at the hearthside.

“It is—I believe we must be proactive in this endeavour,” the Keeper’s gaze was resting on her, she could _feel_ it.

Nisathe folded the skin, tying it with twine for their journey, before signaling to the hearthmistress that the meat was ready for quartering and roasting. She turned to the Keeper, gripping the knife loosely at her side. She could feel the blood drying under her nails.

“Would you go to this meeting and gain information?”

Nisathe openly gawked at her. So did Leilani. “It’s a long journey, but it’s doable. But are you sure, Keeper?”

“We will find more information about the specifics, but I believe we must gain the knowledge of these meeting firsthand. Our people cannot survive on hearsay.”

“Would it just be Nisathe?” Leilani asked. “I’m sure Aedanthir would volunteer as well.”

“I will speak to him—however, he is injured and Nisathe remains our best spy. She is hardly detected, even by our own,” the Keeper had that twinkle in her eye again—Nisathe would sometimes wonder if her mother had been allowed to live longer—if that look would be in hers too. “It will be a blow to lose you, and it would mean that we need to stay on the move more—but,”

“The most pressing matter is this conflict.”

“Indeed.”

The smell of roasting ram filled the camp. Nisathe felt a pang of hunger for the first time that day—seeking to wash the blood from her hands and knives as she mulled over this new proposition.

\---

“She wants me to attend this Conclave,” Nisathe turned a rabbit on its makeshift spit as they kept vigil.

Aedanthir seemed unsurprised. “She wouldn’t send me like this,” he smiled wryly at his arm.

“You did well though,” she said. “And I saw you practising, you’re at the bow as though you’d never been hit.”

“But not well enough or reliably enough to leave on such an important mission. In any case, I think you’re the right person for the job, da’lan. Has she pestered you more about the bonding?”

Nisathe’s face turned sour. “You can tell. I wouldn’t look so amused, she’s been suggesting _you._ ”

It wasn’t unheard of for a ha’hren and a student to bond—though what generally raised eyebrows was the age difference. Aedanthir was no more than thirty-six summers, which was a bit older, to be sure, but she’d heard of worse.

“I’m not averse to it, though, neither am I enthralled,” he said nonchalantly. A utilitarian gaze settled upon her, and she knew her own appraisal matched. “She stopped nagging me years ago—the only reason she has taken it up again is you.”

“I’m not going to find anyone else at this rate,” she sighed. “This isn’t what the ancestors had in mind when they bonded for life.”

“We could absolutely hate one another.”

“That is true,” she looked at him, considering. He moved slightly closer, his lips ghosting over hers, leaving her with the feeling of going slightly cross-eyed to keep him in view. When their mouths touched, there was no passion in it—it was not unpleasant, but rather, it was _nothing._ They drew apart, shaking their heads.

“I honestly don’t get it,” he laughed. “I’ve never felt a thing as I’m supposed to. Not even just now.”

“Neither have I,” she took the rabbit off the fire. “That makes it less awkward. What good is that then?”

“We take care of one another,” Aedanthir said. And that was true—she trusted no one more than she trusted him. “Besides, da’lan, how do you think one has children?”

Finally, a flush emerged, and Nisathe glanced back at him. There was an unpleasant jolt in her stomach, as though she’d stepped into one of Leilani’s light shock rune pranks—the look on his face had changed slightly…had he felt it too? Was that what they were supposed to be feeling?

“I never thought you pined for children,”

“I like them well enough. But I know _you_ pine for a family, however you may try to hide it,” he laughed again. “That look on your face just now was rather nice.”

She turned away in a dramatic huff. “You do rather enjoy unseating me.”

“I do. It has made me consider that this may be an entertaining venture after all.”

Nisathe shoved the rabbit on a stick at him. “Put some food in your mouth and be quiet, ha’hren. You’re sounding all sappy. We’ll talk about this stupid idea when I return.”

\---

\- 23rd day of Kingsway, 9:41 -

The streets of Haven were awash with chaos—soldiers, townspeople and Chantry members were rushing about, parting only slightly as the Keeper made her way through them. It felt as though the town had scarcely rested since the Conclave. She stared at the murky light reflected on the cobblestones, sickly green and almost malicious. The sky had been spitting demons for the past three days. It was almost hilarious in its irony—the very heavens rained the coffers of hell upon them. She moved towards the dungeons, the hurried whispers of soldiers filling the Chantry with their ominous verses. They were desperately praying for their lives.

The guards saluted Cassandra as she approached. One produced his key, placing it in the first lock on the iron door—the Seeker produced the other, and the door swung open.

“The Sister is already in there, Seeker. She took the apostate to look at the prisoner.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Since dawn,”

She nodded curtly. The woman had been placed in the furthest cell, with all other prisoners moved out of the dungeons and into a makeshift prison near the barracks. Leliana looked up at the sound of her companion’s footfalls, her expression dour.

“What’s the situation out there?”

“More rifts have opened, and more demons are pouring into the surrounding areas. Soon we may not have enough men to combat them.”

Leliana took a sharp breath. “I’ve been getting reports of these things as far as Orlais. Unless we figure out how to close them, we will be overrun.”

“I fear Haven may not stand long. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of the Commander since the fighting began.”

“He prefers to be with his soldiers,” Leliana said. “Let him stay there—we do not need him until this one has awoken.”

\---

The Dalish woman turned in her sleep, crying out as the mark on her hand fizzled. Each time, without fail, Cassandra felt her grip on her sword hilt tighten. The apostate mage was kneeling over her, holding the afflicted hand in his, own, the other sagging in its connected chain.

“This has gone on for hours.”

“Fade magic is rather unpredictable, Seeker,” he replied. As desperation built, so too did her annoyance—she’d threatened to have him executed at least three times within the past hour alone. The door opened, revealing the slightly haggard face of her associate, who had promised to return at dusk.

“What have you found, Leliana?”

“My agents have been looking, but she does not seem to be from a clan in the Frostbacks. Perhaps we will need her to awaken to find out her particular clan—though I think we may speculate their motive in the meanwhile.”

“Do you think this was some act of terrorism?” Cassandra asked.

“I doubt a single clan would do that,” Leliana shook her head. “The Dalish prefer to stay out of human affairs. They also rarely meet collectively—my agents would have noticed.”

“If I may,” Solas volunteered, settling the woman back down onto her threadbare bedroll. “Some clans may have interest in human affairs. This war affects the Dalish, and it also heightens the anti-elven sentiment.”

“So, they are curious.”

“Sister Leliana,” a voice called from behind the iron door. The redhead turned on her heel, speaking hushed words with the messenger while receiving a small bundle.

“As it seems, we may have some of her possessions,” she unwrapped the oilcloth package, revealing a hide-bound book, a simple quill and an inkstone. She thumbed through the volume and frowned.

“What is it?” the Seeker looked ready to jump into action at the merest hint from her companion. Solas arranged himself slightly in front of his charge, if only to take the direct line of sight away from her.

“It’s in elvhen. Can you read this?” she exhibited the book to the apostate.

“It is likely that I can interpret some passages, depending on whether her elvhen is conventional. Most Dalish do not learn to write it fluently unless they are a Keeper.”

“Are you suggesting that she is a Keeper?” Cassandra asked sharply.

“I doubt it, I sense something _wrong_ within her, but I do not sense magic. Only mages are Keepers,”

“Enough with the Dalish history lesson, read this for us,” the Sister jabbed the book into his hands. “Unfortunately, as secretive as they are with their language, I have no associates with me who can translate this. So, it is up to you,” her voice took on a darker tone. “But know that I can tell when people lie to my face.”

Solas sighed. He flicked through the pages, scanning the walls of neatly written text with his index finger. “She hasn’t written much, it seems as though this book was a bit of a parting gift from her clan. As I thought, she is simply here to observe. The entries are all about her journey, all generally benign.” He carefully omitted the passages of her killing Templars. That would go over poorly.

“Read it properly,” Cassandra hissed.

“I understand she’s a prisoner, but as I’ve said, she has no ill-motive going on what’s in this book,” he said evenly. “It would be rather crude of me to read her innermost thoughts for strangers, especially when they are irrelevant.”

“We decide what is relevant or not,” Cassandra’s grip on her sword hilt tightened again. Leliana shook her head.

“Fine. What clan is she from?”

“She has not said,” Solas looked through the pages. “There are five entries, but they do not mention the clan by name. I imagine she did this on purpose. They may come from Free Marches, however. Her journey began short of Wycome.”

“I could ask my agents to look around the area,” Leliana looked at the Seeker. “However, the problem remains that the Dalish are nomadic. They could pick up and be miles away before we even get close.”

“Then we wait for her to awaken, as was our plan,” Cassandra said roughly. “We will get the answers we need from her.”

Leliana took the book from his hands, bundling it back into the oilcloth. “Your work is done for today.”

Solas looked down at the unconscious woman; she was quite young—and small-looking, especially with the giant chains around her limbs. She’d stopped fidgeting now, and was still, her hair mussed and tossed across her face. For both of their sakes, he hoped that she would awaken soon.

\---

“What is your name?” the woman in chainmail and Chantry robes stared at her, arms folded. Her companion was a woman with cropped hair and a plate armour cuirass with the crest of the Seekers emblazoned upon it—she stood closer, her hand firmly on her sword handle.

“Nisathe,” she replied simply. There was a singing pain through her arm as the strange, glowing mark on her palm sparked, leaving her gasping and nauseous.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the woman in plate armour bent her head, inches away from her own as she spoke. “The Conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

Nisathe looked at her as she walked into view, preferring to focus on keeping the bile down rather than answering. She had not a clue what had gone on—first, she’d been at the Conclave—then, a world of nightmares. The glowing silhouette of her saviour was still seared into her mind’s eye.  She'd awoken for barely an hour before the interrogation began.

The woman scoffed at her silence, grabbing her cuffed arms roughly. “Explain this.”

The mark glowed ominously in the dimness of the dungeon. Nisathe shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“What do you mean, _you don’t know_?” the savagery in her voice left Nisathe bracing for a blow.

“I don’t know what it is or how it got there.” The mark sparked again, leaving the last words to come out as a hiss.

 “You’re lying!” the woman lunged—but was caught by her companion.

“We need her, Cassandra,” she said calmly.

Nisathe swallowed hard. Her arm was aching, her head was aching—everything simply _hurt_. She recalled the mass of people filing around the Temple—more than she’d ever seen congregated in one space.

“All those people are dead?” the thought was horrific.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” the robed woman asked. Cassandra, the woman with cropped black hair settled for pacing restlessly at the sideline.

“I remember…running,” Nisathe closed her eyes. She could feel the rough pathway under her boots. The element of wrongness that surrounded that place—the creatures—“things were chasing me, and then…a woman,”

“A woman?” the robed woman’s voice was curious, pleasant, even. Nisathe would bet her most precious bow that it was part of her strategy—to present herself as kinder, and more accepting than her companion. It made no difference to her—there was little she could recall.

“The woman reached out to me, but then,” Nisathe left off. “There’s nothing.”

Cassandra sighed, walking towards the woman. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. She has regained consciousness, so there is no need to wait. I will take her to the rift.”

Leliana nodded curtly. Nisathe closed her eyes as the mark burned, feeling her hands sag as they were released from their chains. When she opened her eyes, she found herself face-to-face with Cassandra, who was still stern-faced, but this time, curious.

“What did happen out there?”

She was hoisted to her feet. “It…will be easier to show you.”

There was a rhythmic, sustained pounding in the inside of her skull as she stared up at the sky; her eyes burned and ached, readjusting to the light after days of darkness. Green rivulets snaked through the clouds, cracking almost like lightning, seeping the same feeling of _wrongness_ into the air from her memory. With a sharp snap, the mark flared to life, burning all the way from her palm to her head, the sudden pain drawing the very air from her lungs and throwing her to the cold stone floor. It was gone in a rush; the Seeker, Cassandra, pulled her back to her feet—her severe expression softened slightly with what seemed to be pity as she took in the sight of the cold-sweating, panting elf.

“Each time the breach spreads and your mark spreads. And it is killing you.” As was her wont, she remained matter-of-fact, adjusting her sword belt almost anxiously as she looked back to the sky. “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

Hazel eyes turned to her, expectant. Nisathe felt annoyance surge through her weary body—she hadn’t come here for this. She needed to get back to her clan, to tell them of this _thing_.

But what did she know about it? Less than nothing. If the mark was killing her, would she even make it back in time?

Her answer was bitter. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

The Seeker frowned. “None of us have a choice. Come.” She shepherded the shorter woman down the long bridge. It was utterly cluttered with people, nervously staring at the sky, moving about in apprehensive knots, and as they passed…staring at her in open derision. This went beyond humans looking at some _knife-eared_ interloper.

“They have decided your guilt. They need it,” she explained. Nisathe looked about, until she caught the eye of nearby woman; the stocky redhead spat at her feet in disgust. “The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers.”

She’d been able to surmise as much, given how many Chantry habits she saw from the shadows, before the world had suddenly gone dark. They passed a line of neatly arranged corpses—some wrapped in shrouds, while others lay stiff and blankly staring up at the angry sky. She’d never seen such a number of dead; even when the clan came upon misfortune, it was never on this magnitude. Finally, came onto a dirt road, its worn footpath lined on either side with thick snow. Nisathe shivered slightly in her furs. She hated the damn cold more than anything.

“There was a chance for peace between mages and Templars,” Cassandra sighed. “She brought their leaders together. Now they are dead.”

A right disaster, even without the scores of corpses behind them. What in the world happened up there? The briefest flash of that ethereal woman in that gods-forsaken place flashed across her mind. Nothing further came, no matter how hard she tried.

“You must not think too harshly of these people,” Cassandra looked at her as they walked. “We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves as she did.”

“Beyond, such as creating an alliance with a Dalish elf?”

“Among other things. Until the breach is sealed, we must dedicate ourselves to this,” as they passed through the large, wooden gate, she turned. Nisathe felt her bindings give way as the Seeker’s dagger cleaved through the thick rope. She looked her charge dead in the eye. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more. We must set off now, it is not far.”

Rubbing her wrists, she followed. Any trial on their part would inevitably result in her death—her first course of action, after this business was over with, would be to escape. Clan Lavellan needed to know every bit of information that she could gather. Whatever that _thing_ was, it could mean ruin for them all.

 


End file.
